Fear. It was fear she felt, in truth. The little display of temper was just her mind’s paltry attempt at bravado.
“Don’t laugh at me, Tris,” she mumbled. She felt his hand on her shoulder, a gentle but insistent pressure that turned her away from the door and into his arms.
“I’m not laughing.” Tristan had a buoyant nature, but the messenger’s report had erased all good humor. LaBarque’s transport had been ambushed on a forest road by armed men, the horses
killed, the guards attacked. Some of the criminals had been apprehended, but not before three guards lay dead and LaBarque had slipped away into the woods.
André spoke up. “If it were anyone else I would expect him to seek only his freedom—to try to disappear into obscurity, as far from us as possible. But LaBarque...”
“He’s crazy as a coot,” concluded Tristan. “Who knows what he might do? But I agree. This is not about saving his skin. If I had to, I’d guess he’s coming after us.”
“You don’t think he’ll come here?” asked Rosalie. “All the way to Chênier?”
“I think he’ll try,” said Tristan. “And Rosie, Dominic had a good idea. He suggested you come with me to the defense talks in Gaudette. We can be long gone before LaBarque shows up here, if he even gets this far. You too, of course,” he added, nodding to André.
André shook his head. “I will stay here, if the Queen will extend her hospitality until his recapture. I am too old to run about the countryside, and I do not, in any case, believe LaBarque has much interest in me. But I would be very grateful, and sleep more soundly, if you would take Rosalie away from here. The sooner, the better.”
“T
HE SOONER, THE
better,” said Gabrielle. A real bed, she was thinking. And a bath and clean clothes and clean hair. She was tired of roughing it, ready to endure even another bone-jarring shepherd’s wagon if it would get her a comfortable room and a nurse-maid’s help. Gaudette was not far, and Castle Drolet beckoned like a very paradise.
Féolan went to speak to the outpost commander, who proved
eager to help his liege-lady. Though there was no carriage on site, he offered them a full-sized cart and horses to pull it, plus horses for Féolan and Derkh to ride. With a mattress laid on the bottom and a good road ahead, Gabrielle could count on a restful journey.
The clop of the horses’ hooves made a hypnotic backdrop to Gabrielle’s wandering thoughts as the foursome made their way to Gaudette. She lay cradled in the cart, watching a soothing parade of clouds and tree branches. How strange it was to think that this peaceful shaded road was the same route taken just this past spring by the retreating army. Danaïs and Féolan were singing now, clear voices raised in a duet that twined around the beat of hooves and rattle of the cart, the sound so lazy and lighthearted it made the clamor in her memory seem but a dark dream. Yet she knew it had been real: the shouting and confusion, the milling of men and horses, the groans and cries of the wounded and the sudden alarm in her mind that made her turn and struggle against the great tide of men, back to the grim field where her father lay.
Well, that was in the past now. Gabrielle hoped it would stay there, that the defense plan would remain a prudent but untested precaution. One of her brothers would come to Gaudette for the talks, she remembered, anticipating the unexpected reunion with pleasure. With luck she’d be strong enough by then to make the most of his free time. She hoped, with a twinge of apology to Dominic, that it would be Tristan. She wondered if he’d had a chance to see Rosalie yet.
T
HE
common touch did not come easily to LaBarque. He had disguised many aspects of his personality over the years, but never his rank, unless to aggrandize himself. His mouth drew down in distaste at the touch of these rough clothes, soiled and patched by some common laborer, and he drew his cloak farther over his brow so none would see the disdain glittering in his eye.
It was well for him that he did so, for more showed in his face now than mere contempt for the jostling market crowd. The relentless malice that drove him burned in the dark sockets of his eyes, so that any who marked him shrank from his approach.
He was learning to keep his mouth shut also, for his educated speech betrayed him. In monosyllables he bought a crusty loaf and a slab of pork to lay inside it. It was wholesome enough food, but it disgusted him to eat thus, without plate or service, getting grease on his hands and crumbs down his shirt. No matter. The food, like the clothes, like the anonymity of this stinking crowd of humanity, was only a means to an end. LaBarque retreated to a quieter side street, crouched against a wall and ate mechanically while he planned his next move.
Lots of guards around. Guards at the city gates, questioning peoples’ business. Guards here at the market. Word had reached Chênier, then. The castle itself would be shut tight as a drum.
Could he use the same trick twice and enter the castle as he had the Royal City, hidden in a load of hay? He smelled risk. If rumor had spread in the city, and he approached the wrong delivery boy, one unmoved by the coins clinking into his palm...
He would wait and listen and learn how things lay. The Royal Brat was not one to lie walled up in safety for long. Sooner or later, the rat would come out of its hole.
B
Y THE MIDNIGHT
bell, LaBarque had visited five different ale-houses, bought and wasted five mugs of ale and eavesdropped on untold meaningless conversations. At last he had grown impatient enough to risk a more direct approach. He drained his mug (the first he had actually drunk) and weaved up to the counter, acting befuddled.
“Another mug, sir?” The bartender’s belly bore witness to many years of sampling his own goods. It thrust proudly against the counter as the man came up to serve him.
LaBarque shook his head, spread his hands helplessly. “I must be in the wrong place. I’m new in town, I was to meet my cousin. I thought it was here but... He’s a groom at the Royal Stables. Is there a place he’d be likely to...” He left the question dangling. He knew well enough that pubs tended to have their regular clientele, often groups of men and women who shared a workplace or a neighborhood. If the royal servants had a regular watering hole, there was a good chance a hosteller would know of it.
“The Royal Stables, is it? Maybe he was too worn out for drinkin’. There’s been a deal of coming and going at the castle lately, or so I’ve heard. But you could try the Queen’s Girdle, just across the road at the corner there. Lot of the castle folk favor it.”
LaBarque flipped a coin onto the counter and pushed out the door.
T
HE
Q
UEEN’S
G
IRDLE
was, in LaBarque’s estimation, “a fetid little armpit.” It offered, however, everything the royal servants required of a gathering place: an excellent beer in ample mugs, a congenial host, and best of all, deeply padded red leather benches flanking the back tables—a comfortable and spacious place to rest their bones and exchange gossip. Here they held their own little court, for the inside story on royal goings-on was highly prized and gladly paid for in ale.
LaBarque found a seat not far from the back tables, squeezed in and stared into the beer while his ears did their work. It was not long before he was rewarded for his troubles.
“Oh, aye, she’s a lovely girl. Mind you, she has a temper of her own, she does. Didn’t she give the Lord Tristan a proper dressing-down just the other day?” This from a clucking, know-it-all voice. It had to be Rosalie under discussion. So the little miss has a shrew’s tongue in her head, does she? LaBarque thought. He would soon have cured her of that.
“She didn’t!” Braying, delighted shock. That horse-voice could only come from the blowsy redhead he had noticed on the way in. “How could anyone be mad at him, with his lovely smile and all?”
“She was, though. She was all but spittin’ fire, let me tell you! Though it weren’t long before they was all lovey-dovey again.” The two women sighed in apparent satisfaction.
A new voice joined in, a man’s.
“I heard there was trouble on the coast and that’s why the Martineaus came back here. Is it true the prince was nearly killed?”
“Where’ve you been, down a hole?” The cluck-hen again. “Of course it’s true; everyone knows that old story.”
“Ooooh, the treachery of it!” Carrot-top, wallowing in boozy outrage. “Wouldn’t I like to get my hands on that one! He’d be missing summat in his britches, if I had my druthers!”
A new voice overrode the chorus of chuckles. “Maybe you’ll get your chance, Maude. My brother in the guard says that LaBarque guy gave ‘em the slip and might even be headed to Chênier for another try.”
The excited shrieks of the women almost drowned out the man’s next sentence: “Not that it’ll do him any good. Prince Tristan’s off to the defense talks already, and the Lady Rosalie with him. Let him come here, I say—make it easier to catch the treasonous devil.”
T
HE HANDS GRIPPING
his mug trembled with the effort of self-control. In LaBarque’s mind he had hurled it against the wall, crockery shattering, suds frothing down to the floor, and turned on the whole pack of smug, self-satisfied, mindless gossip-mongers like a rabid dog.
Gone.
Tristan DesChênes, the man who had become LaBarque’s sole reason for being, was gone. The sour taste of defeat rose up in his throat, and he met it with his own seething hatred. He would
not
be sucked down into the muck and mire of failure.
LaBarque’s stool clattered to the ground as he jumped to his feet, temporarily stilling the buzz of conversation. He left the stool where it lay and shoved his way through the crowded room. Only a thin thread of will kept him from knifing the first fool who stood in his path. He needed space and air. It wouldn’t do to murder someone—the wrong someone—now.
G
ABRIELLE
sat in a clean, tightly tucked, white bed against clean white pillows, arrayed in a clean white nightgown. Her hair was neatly tied in a Maronnais style: three braids, pulled back and joined into a single thick plait halfway down her back. It had pleased her shy young maid inordinately to be allowed to style Gabrielle’s hair so, and she had fussed and labored to make each braid smooth and perfect. In short, Gabrielle was as comfortable and well cared for as could be. And she was bored.
It was a good sign, she knew. Not long ago, she had been too sick and uncomfortable to be bored. Still, she was desperate for something to do: a lap harp to play, or one of the heavy leather-bound books from her father’s library to read. Someone to talk to. She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the view from the window at the foot of her bed. Stretching up straight gave her a warning twinge, but no serious pain. Another good sign.
The king’s own bonemender had been charged with her care, and to his eyes Gabrielle’s wound appeared to have been a fairly superficial puncture that was healing impressively well, given the rough conditions she had lived in. Still, he had given her every treatment he could think of, seemingly unwilling to believe that nothing more was required than rest and good hygiene. Gabrielle had not revealed how drastic the original injury had been; the
poor man was overawed enough as it was by her rank and reputation as a healer.
A quiet knock—the kind people make when they want to notify an awake person, but not disturb a sleeping one—made her brighten. Féolan stuck his head in, smiled to find her so alert and entered the room. One eyebrow lifted as he took in the total effect.
“You look...hmm, like some kind of snow spirit. Very neat and white. I’m afraid to touch you, lest I leave a smudgy fingerprint on all that white and incur the wrath of your healer—who, by the way, I believe holds me already in low regard.”
Gabrielle laughed. “Why? What’s he got against you?”
“I’m not entirely sure. There was a great deal of muttering and head-shaking just now when I came to see you, all rather cryptic. He seems to blame me for keeping you out in the bush so long. I’m sure I heard the phrase ‘Should have been seen to sooner.’”
“Oh, I understand.” Gabrielle looked to the empty doorway and lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s upset because there’s nothing left for him to do.” She eyed Féolan. “Where did you get the new clothes? Those aren’t Maronnais.”
He shook his head. “From Danaïs. He brought extra for the defense talks. He says he’ll come by to see you later today.”
“Féolan.” Really, she felt very much better. “I’m not worried about smudges. C’mere.”
When he was closer—a lot closer—Gabrielle was taken aback by the complexity of emotion she could sense. Something was troubling him. Not wanting to pry, she said nothing. If Féolan wanted to tell her, he would.
And after a while, he did. With visible resolve, he lifted his head from where it rested on hers, straightened up and sighed.
“I need to tell you something. And I know what you will say to this,” he began. “It is what I would say myself. But I do blame myself for what happened to you.” He cut short her protests. “I know. I know you made your own decision to come. I know it was not for me to allow or forbid it. For all I know, you would even make the same decision again.” Her emphatic nod confirmed it. “But Gabrielle, sometimes our hearts do not heed our reason. I thought I was going to lose you. And I cursed myself for bringing you into such danger. Can you understand that?”
She hesitated, then nodded. Of course she could understand it. She had blamed herself for her father’s death, when no healer on earth could have saved him. Her fingers twined in his. But he wasn’t finished.
“So.” Féolan ran his free hand through his hair, looked out the window as though to draw strength from the summer air, or maybe escape through it. What could be taxing him so?
“So, you see, now more than ever I do not wish to wrong you again—even if you do not see it as a wrong. And yet I fear I may have done just that.”
“Féolan, what are you talking about?” Gabrielle was baffled.
“Gabrielle, my father is concerned that our betrothal vows may have been made—well, rashly.” He touched her arm as she bridled. “Please, just listen to the end of this. It’s hard enough for me to say.”